LIBUARY OF CONGRESS.* 



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I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J. 




A W«ygi€® Pl©w®»-< 



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PETsiae 






iower, 



OTHKR POEMS. 



CHARLOTTE LENNOX. 



"Happiness is a wayside flower, growing on tlie iiigh road to 
usefulness." 



BALTIMORE: ';: 

FEINTED BY KELLY, PIET & CO. (^ 

174 W. Baltimore Street. 
1875. 



.C4- 



Entered according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1875, bj- 

KELLY, PIET & CO., 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



Kelly, Piei <& Co., Balto. 




TO 

^EVERN Je/^CKLE ^AhU?, 

OF WHOSE 

Professional Eminence and Literary Graces, 

THE 

MEN AND WOMEN 

OF MARYLAND, 

Are Alike Justly Proud, 

THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 

BY 




A Wayside Flower 1 

The Thistle Seed 36' 

The Old Manor House 40 

The Wizard Loom 44 

My Lady Fair 48 

A Storm Among the Sand Hills of Colorado 50 

Tired Out 56 

Out of the Way...-. 58 

Failure and Compensation 61 

Mohammed Ali and the Apple 64 

Am I Glad 67 

Welcome to Winter .' 69 

Song — Nay, Crown Me Not 71 

A Barn Yard Kow 73 

The Mistletoe 75 

Folded Hands , 77 

M.Y Hammock 78 

She Came From Heaven 80 

My Little Queen 82 

Three Phases 83 

The Magnolia 85 

Song — I Pray Thee Drop 87 

She Wore a Cloud 88 

Unrest 90 

Go Thou Thy Way...., 92 




k WAYSIDE FLOWER. 




" Happiness is a wayside flower, growing on the high road to 
usefulnes?," 



NEELING there in silent anguish, all her 

frame convulsed with grief, 
Gaze we with a tender pity, where we can- 
not bring relief. 
Scarcely turned of fourteen summers — less of woman 

than of child — 
Old in sorrow she must needs be, to have learned a 

look so wild. 
Not in youth can one great trouble sadden thus the 

mobile face, 
Many and persistent trials there have been to leave 

such trace. 
" O, God ! " she cries, " In mercy hear me ! Why 
should life be dark like this. 



2 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

When ray own heart tells me daily that the world is 

full of bliss ! 
'Tis not that I long for riches — life alone is wealth 

for me — 
While in veins so young and healthful bounds the rich 

blood wild and free. 
But I must have love, O, Father : human hearts are 

more than stone ; 
Send it me in kindliest pity, ere I be quite callous 

grown." 
Falling white in feathery showers, apple-blossoms, 

pure and pale. 
Fell on hair and brow and bosom, decking her in 

bridal veil. 
If prophetic of the future, all unheeded was it now, 
As she stooped with hands outstretching to eulave her 

burning brow. 
Kneeling there with tresses flowing, in a little nook 

she spied 
Sweet Spring violets early growing, sheltered safe from 

wind and tide. 
" I M'ill pluck them," cried the maiden ; " even heart 

so hard as hers 
Must be softened somewhat towards me, when she sees 

these and my fears." 
Then with face of curious mingling, hope and fear so 

strangely blent. 
With a weary step, and lagging, homeward through 

the fields she went. 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 3 

Coming to the garden paling, wistful looks she casts 

aside, 
And in spite of vain endeavor, cannot all her tremblings 

hide. 
Dwells within some hideous monster waiting for his 

hapless prey, 
That she dreads to cross the threshold while she stands 

awhile to pray ? 
Ah ! for hearts so young and tender, days of dragons 

are not done ; 
And their numerous snares and pitfalls work from 

morn to set of sun. 
" Mabel ! " cries a voice, whose sharpness tunes her 

throbbing nerves to pain, 
"Loitering feet make lazy beggars, prithee why so late 

again? 
What ! those flowers for me, you tell me ! Put them in 

the crystal vase ; 
They had bloomed full long, I'll warrant, if you'd left 

them in their place. 
AVash the children's hands and faces; see that they are 

neat for tea ; 
And be sure your task is finished, and as neat as neat 

can be." 
"So," groaned Mabel, "she can pity even the violets' 

early doom ; 
But for me a tender feeling in her heart can find no 

room." 



4 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Fifteen moons have sunk and risen, since by little 

babbling brook, 
Mabel culled the early violets sheltered safe within 

their nook. 
Fifteen moons of blighting sameness to the girl whose 

tortured heart, 
Craved with eager, feverish longing, in the world to 

play her part. 
Had a father lived to shield her — train her bright 

untutored mind. 
Which, in warmth and quickness growing, far out- 
stripped the summer wind — 
Bent and pruned the glorious branches, bound them 

to the parent tree ; — 
All unfelt the eager longing, but to be untrammelled — 

free ! 
Had a mother lived to yield her tender loving, with- 
out stint. 
Silver might have turned to golden — priceless treasure 

from the mint. 
Orphaned early — she had fallen into busy, tireless 

hands ; 
Hands that toiled, and rested never, working hard for 

house and lands. 
Worth their weight — these human engines, never known 

to tire or stay : 
Ceaseless driving all around them from the early peep 

of day ; 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 



But too hard for finer natures ; her's was made of 

purer clay ; 
And in all this coarser tumult, she must wilt or run 

away. 



Mental food was at a discount in this house of virtues 

stern, 
And for sympathetic nature, Mabel's spirit sorely 

yearned. 
In the months since last we saw her, childish fear has 

turned to hate; 
Stands she now, in budding beauty, at the little lattice 

gate. 
Voice may call as sharp as eyer ; Mabel will not 

answer now. 
Save with slightly shrugging shoulder and a cold, 

averted brow. 
Youth hath followed fast on childhood — Mabel looks 

the woman grown : 
Oft the bud we leave at nightfall in the morn a rose 

hath blown. 
Poor pale rose ! whose drooping petals, drenched by 

night's too copious show'rs. 
Only need to flush with beauties, one of daylight's 

glowing hours. 
Quick the dawning ! O'er her features flashes sunlight 

born of love : 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 



Is herjinguished prayer, then, answered by the pitying 
Heaven above ? 



From beneath the deepening shadows, comes a youMi 

of noble mien ; 
Scarce you'd wonder at her loving, if the vision you 

had seen : 
Quick she flies to greet his coming — eyes look love to 

eyes again ; 
Out of sight and all forgotten, sink past years of toil 

and pain. 
Koses bloom in myriads round them, lilacs breathe of 

early love; 
All earth's fairest prospects bound them, and the sky 

bends blue above. 
What to her the cold discomfort she has known 

throughout her life ! 
In her dreams she sees another, with sweet love and 

blessing rife ; 
"Vine-clad cot and rustic bower ; dreams whose vague- 
ness make more sweet : 
In the life she now is leading two extremes of feeling 

meet : 
Loathing for the tortured childhood, sweet forgiveness 

of the past ; 
For when one's supremely happy, how can hate or 

malice last ? 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 



Life is sweet when love has crowned us, and we ask 

of fate no more, 
Than to leave us where love found us, with our full 

cup brimming o'er. 



In the dim, uncertain twilight of an evening soft and 

Igray, . 

When the shadoAVS seem coquetting with the fading 

beams of day — 
From a mansion, tall and stately, with its windows 

open wide. 
And a porch where sweet clematis tangles up on every 

side; 
Steals a figure through the gloaming with a shy and 

nervous haste — 
Is it some forbidden pleasure she has stolen forth to 

taste ? 
She has seen scarce eighteen summers, and a childish 

look of dread 
Mantles o'er the lovely features as she droops her 

queenly head. 
It may be some eye hath marked her as she stole 

adown the stair. 
With her little paper parcel and her shining tresses 

bare. 
Not the old romantic ladder with the beating heart 

below. 



8 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Waiting there to clasp his jewel, gliding down the 

rounds so slow. 
Ah! that sweet romance hath vanished witii the age 

that gave it birth, 
And elopement at the present, savors strong of woe and 

dearth ; 
For the age is realistic, and a lover worth the name, 
\yith a goodly share of fortune, or a promise of fair 

fame. 
Does not need to plead his passion on an unfrequented 

street. 
But may lay his pledges boldly in the eyes of all they 

meet. 
Yes, the days of lordly castles and of towers tall and 

grim. 
Whence the maiden waved her kerchief and kept watch 

alone for him ; 
When a theft was something noble, if a heart were but 

the prize, 
And a courtship doubly piquant if 't were hedged about 

with lies — 
They have vanished, and a bridal to command the 

world's applause. 
Must conform to all its notions and be governed by its 

laws. 
What's a bride without a trousseau but an everyday 

affair ! 
A pea-fowl shorn of plumage has a very sorry air : 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. \) 

And where a dame ouce needed but a single silken 

gown, 
A girl must now have twenty, or be sneered at by the 

town ! 

Something doubtless of this feeling stirred within the 

culprit's heart, 
Although she scorned to own it, and held boldly to 

her part. 
Hark ! is. that a foot-step? and she glides into a run. 
Keeping well within the shadow every passer-by to 

shun ; 
Till beneath an ancient gateway she is clasped so close 

and warm, 
That no room is left for tremblings, and she dreams no 

more of harm. 
" My darling, oh ! my darling, do you give yourself 

tome?" 
And he clasps her slight frame closely, and he clasps 

her tenderly. 
"Yonder, in the ivied Chapel, stands the Priest to 

make us. free." 
" He is waiting for us, dearest ; and I, only wait for 

thee." 
So, in the gathering darkness, mate these birds of early 

spring ; 
Scarce waiting to be full-fledged ere they're off, and 

on the wing. 



10 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Like the birds, they think hereafter to provide their 

humble nest ; 
Its fair walls will rise by magic ; or, if not, she hath 

his breast. 
No reminder of the adage, that a bride should have 

the sun ; 
And the shades have fully gathered ere the Priest has 

made them one. 



Billows kiss the sands and vanish — flowerets blossom 
but to fade ; 

Nature's sweetest things are frailest — sunshine's fol- 
lowed soon by shade. 

One by one illusions leave us ; and more blest, per- 
chance, are they 

Who have seen their treasure perish ere it met the 
noontide ray. 

As the babe we lose in childhood -ere its faults are 
giants grown. 

Memory decks with rarer virtues than the flowerets 
full)"- blown, 

So the love that left us moaning, ere its hues had time 
to fade, * 

Fancy clothes in brighter colors than the one our life 
has made ; 

And the passion early stifled, though it bring us 
sharpest pain, 



A WAYSIDE FLOWJER. 11 

Lives in all its fair proportions safe from earthly spot 
or stain. 



Days, and weeks, and months had vanished : autumn 

gathered in her store, 
And the eyes so sweetly tender, saddest look of yearn- 
ing wore. 
Who that e'er has knelt in anguish o'er a hope too 

early dead. 
But can "weep in tender pity for this sorrow-laden head. 
Like a flash of glorious sunshine on a gloomy, dripping 

day, 
To her inmost depth of being love had quickly Avon 

his way. 
Won his way with shout and laughter, tinting all with 

roseate hue — 
Decking earth in richer colors, making summer skies 

more blue. 
Now, the clouds had sullen gathered, and the sun had 

ceased to shine, 
And the tempest brooded darkly over oak and clinging 

vine. 



How or why the change befell, boots not now for us 
to tell, 



12 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

But with hearts that pity sways, follow Mabel's winding 

ways. 
She had thought her life complete, dreamed of every 

blessing sweet, 
Sure to be her very own, now lier heart seemed turned 

to stone. 
Why had he so careless grown ! she had loved him none 

the less — 
Then she'd shrink, lest viewless spirits should have 

heard her heart confess. 
Was it that in these short months she had grown less 

pleasipg fair ? 
And her eye the mirror sought with a troubled, ques- 
tioning air ; 
And her haughty head would straighten — none must 

know how ill she fared : 
Never yet the world had pity for the heart before it 

bared. 
What if love had lost its sweetness ! life liad other 

gifts in store : 
She would seek for mental riches — search the world 

for varied lore. 
Many a woman, 'reft of loving, had begot a world-wide 

fame : 
She would set the nations ringing with the music of 

her name. 
Only they who've loved and suffered know to touch 

the heart's deep springs ; 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 13 

Now, as ia the days of Eden, wider range sad wisdom 

brings. 
But, alas ! these stern resolvings melt into a milder 

mood — 
Fell despair must sweep the harp-strings ere a woman's 

muse be wooed. 
And sweet Mabel, sad and heart-sore, still had gleams 

of heavenly hope — 
Lower still the clouds must darken if her mind would 

find its scope. 



Gracious Heaven ! she had seen him toy with locks of 

golden hue : 
Twine them gently 'round his finger — sun himself in 

eyes of blue. 
Had her own he praised so lately lost their glossy nut- 
brown shade ? 
Were her eyes, so dark and melting, dull beside this 

airy maid ? 
Tush ! The mirror plainly told her that her bloom 

was none the less : 
She must probe the mystery deeper — force her tortured 

heart to guess. 
She had read in moments stolen from her short and 

busy life — 
Nay ! had heard that maids once wedded were not 

always loved as wife. 



14 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

She had deemed it but a fable ; or, if men could be so 

base, 
It was but to common vessels — was she not a porce- 
lain vase ! 
He had sought her from the moment that their eyes 

as strangers met. 
She had used no tangled meshes, spread not one, 

coquettish net. 
He had been at pains to win her ; looked the very soul 

of truth J 
How should she, the child of nature, see beneath it 

woe and ruth ! 
He had vowed to keep him ouly unto her while life 

should last — 
Share with her his tiniest joy ; shelter her from every 

blast. 
Did he think because he gave her name and home and 

daily bread — 
Kissed her when the mood was on him, smoothed her 

simply braided head ; 
That the heart himself had wakened, satisfied with 

meaner things, 
Could content it with the body when the soul had 

taken wings ! 
Out upon the faithless craven ! he should know as he 

was known ; 
Careless of her, he should find her stony as a statue 

grown. 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 15 

Cold and gray each morning fell, and the days were 

dark as well. 
Children's laughter shrilly jarred ; sunshine mocked 

her tortured soul ; 
From her very birth ill-starred — born to trouble and 

to dole — 
Oh, she had been mad to dream ! Happiness was not 

for her : 
God had given this passing gleam just to make the 

rest more drear. 
How had she so deeply sinned, more than all the world 

beside ? 
Only to a hardened criminal, endless trouble should 

betide. 
AYould her dreary round of sameness ne'er had known 

this flash of light ! 
When the lightning transient glimmers, darker grows 

the brow of night. 



Softly ! tortured heart, be still ! Bow thee to thy 

Saviour's will ! 
Not in wrath, He sorrow sends; but in pitying mercy 

bends ; 
Tells each throb that wrings thy heart — marks each 

pearly drop that falls ; 
And, in tones of pitying love, low the blessed Saviour 

calls. 



16 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Cast thy broken troth behind thee ! look up with the 

eye of faith ! 
All above, beside, around thee, springs new life from 

out of death. 
Ask not why the gourd is smitten ; bear the burden of 

the day ; 
Hopeful tread the arid desert — flowers will spring 

along the way. 



You have seen in early autumn, when the ripened fruit 

is done. 
Second bloom of snowy clusters sparkling in the 

mellow sun ; 
All unmindful of the leaden skies a few more weeks 

may bring. 
Decking all their shrivelled branches with the buds 

of early spring : 
Melancholy in their beauty, spending all their sap in 

vain ; 
For the winds of early winter soon will rend the buds 

in twain. 
So with Mabel. From the harvest, strewn so thick 

with blinding tears, 
There had budded yet another : recompense for all her 

fears. 
Fairest hope that Heaven can send ! Beat against her 

throbbing heart 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 17 

What might prove her purest joy, or might point still 

keener dart. 
What if Fate shot unrelenting, poisoned arrow from 

her string, 
And, 'neath guise of new-born blessing, copy of the 

father bring! 
How she shudders at the fancy ! Heaven guard her 

from such fate ! — 
Lest the hope in its fulfilment should arouse a v/orld 

of hate. 
Might she greet a tiny daughter, hope and joy would 

bloom anew ; 
And in her ^ her special treasure — cease to mourn her 

love untrue. 



Bending o'er her new born blessing — noting each small 

cherub grace ; 
See the smile like daylight dawning, stealing slow o'er 

Mabel's face ! 
Not e'en all the pain attendant on this mystery of 

birth. 
Nor the shadows which have darkened life for this 

frail child of earth. 
Can efface the mother's yearnings o'er the life herself 

hath given : 
Fate, which hath so hardly used her, yields her now 

foretaste of heaven. 



18 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Touching now the dimpled fingers, now the scanty 

golden hair, 
Kissing each incipient dimple ; was there e'er a form 

so fair ? 
Sitting quiet there beside her, noting with amused 

smile, 
All the mother's rapturous toying, while his own heart 

throbs the while .; — 
Seems he like some wondering schoolboy, o'er a prize 

not fairly won ; 
Or like prince in olden legend at a sight his senses 

stun: 
When as goes the olden story, he has cleft poor pussy's 

head. 
And, all wondrous to beholden, rises up a queen 

instead. 
Will he gather up the fragments with regretful, tender 

pride ? 
Strew the sepulchre with flowerets, all the ghastly 

wreck to hide ? 
Then with heart this wondrous mystery shall have 

freed from all its dross. 
Link again their lives so closely that they lose all sense 

of loss? 
Softly ! softly ! From the marsh-lands, carpet as ye 

may with bloom. 
Comes a life-destroying odor : all who will may scent 

their doom. 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 1'9 

Souls like these, by nature wayward, though ye chain 

thera for a day, 
When ye deem them closest bounden, break their 

bonds like smoke away. 



Vain, alas ! our hopes and scheming ! What are we 

but potters' clay ? 
Even the eyes so lately opened to the joyous light of 

day. 
Bright and blue, as were its father's, smiling up into 

her own, 
, Brought her but a doubtful gladness : some day she 

must see him grown. 
Would he torture, like another, her who loved him 

more than life ? 
Would he woo some tender maiden, making her a 

wretched wife? 
God forbid ! She would not keep him where the taint 

of sin could find ; 
• And a project, vague and floating, formed itself within 

her mind. 
She had left her old surroundings scarce twice thirteen 

moons before. 
Proud to follow in his footsteps — all for love and 

nothing more. 
Why, when love had left her moaning, should she 

hug the empty nest ? 



20 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

She would wander through the wide world with her 

jewel at her breast. 
He, the faithless, light o' loving, let him fare as best he 

may ! 
He would scarce regret her leaving, since it left him 

fuller sway. 
True, he still would swear he loved her, and at times 

so sweet would woo. 
That, with woman's yielding nature, she would half 

believe him true : 
Stifle all her inward doubting, as he'd say, with sun- 
niest smile, 
" Must I needs decry thee, dearest, when I praise , 

another's style ? 
If I wander for a moment, gaze on all that's bright 

and fair. 
And, in birds of other plumage, seek to know the 

strange and rare, — 
'Tis but as the artist striving to enrich his varied 

store. 
And from all the new and curious I return to love thee 

more. 
As a bird on wanton pinion hies him lightly to his nest, 
I, from all my fleeting fancies, rest securely on thy 

breast." 
Thus in moods of fitful loving, glimpses of the past 

would rise. 
Bringing happier days before her, when he lived but 

in her eyes : 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 21 

But the chord too often sounded palls at last upon the 

ear; 
And a bitter smile now lingered, sadder far than rising 

tear. 



Autumn winds were sighing gently thro' close woven 

boughs of pine, 
And the tender scarlet cypress long ago had ceased to 

twine. 
Needles, as the children call them, made a carpet soft 

as down ; 
Richer far with oderous breathings than the bright 

bouquets of town. 
Night was falling, soft and solemn, lighted by a single 

star. 
When thro' all the tender quiet came a ringing sound 

afar. 
Nothing but a doorway closing, from the cottage on the 

hill ; 
Yet the sound so sudden falling brings a dreary sense 

of ill; 
Closing on a heart half broken, on a heated, 'wildered 

brain. 
On the life she leaves behind her, tired, impatient of 

the pain ; 
Clasping closely to her bosom the one thing she deems 

her own ; 



22 A WAYSIDE FLOWEK. 

'Cross the lawn and little meadow, now she nears the 

boundary stone ; 
Opes the gate with sudden clainor, shuts it with impa- 
tient hand, 
Seeming lightened of a burden as she treads an alien 

land. 
Down the narrow starlit roadway, where the shadows 

meeting fell — 
Shadows falling all around her, crossing cheek and 

heart as well. 
Littk heeds she of the omen, checquered tho' her path 

may be ; 
But one feeling throbs exultant — once again her life is 

free. 
Free from all the cold awakening following her short 

dream of bliss ; 
No more shall her lips be tainted with a careless per- 
jurer's kiss. 
In the red mouth nestled near her, she will cleanse her 

own with dew : 
Working hard for him, her blessing, love and life will 

dawn anew. 
Ah ! how vainly in our blindness, human atoms as we 

are, 
Swear to throw the past behind us, choose anew our 

guiding star — 
Ignorant that the woof once woven cannot so be rent 

in twain ; 



A WAYSIDE FLOWEE. 23 

And the threads that passion sever, in some form will 
cross ao;aiu. 



Brooding ! brooding ! ever brooding, and the brow 

once smooth and fair 
Traces shows of weary waiting 'neath the glorious 

waves of hair. 
\yhat, then ! has the boasted freedom, that she came so 

far to seek, 
Left her with an altered outline and this strangely 

pallid cheek ? 
Sure it cannot be that hunger ravages a form so fair ! 
No ! for see yon blooming cherub, lisping low his even- 
ing prayer. 
" Heavenly Father, bless my mother ; bless my absent 

father, too — 
Make me good and take to Heaven, evermore to dwell 

with you." 
So, then, after all her effort to forget the painful past, 
She has taught her boy to love him — pray he may be 

blest at last. 
Out upon you, oh, fainthearted ! Do the men then 

paint us true. 
When they say once loved, loved always, though we 

may that loving rue ? 
Can we never, self-reliant, choose the path our feet shall 

tread ? 



24 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Ah ! we may -^ and so might Mabel, had the still, 
small voice been dead. 



Bravely she had worked and striven, happiness in hope 

to find ; 
Dwelt with pride on baby's progress — watched unfold 

his infant mind — 
Resolutely shutting from her all the past,* with all its 

care, 
Dwelling only on her darling in his boyish promise 

fair; 
Till one day, with blue eyes widened, he had come to 

her and said, 
"Dearie mother, where is father? Tell me, is my 

father dead?" 
Then, with sudden sharpest smiting, she had caught 

him to her breast. 
God in Heaven ! why had she torn him thus from out 

the parent nest ! 
Why had she, like some mad courser, taken between 

her teeth the bit ! 
He might live but to reproach her : bonds of blood 

are firmly knit. 
Why had she forgot the teaching all her life had gone 

to show, 
That with God our future resteth — ^as He wills it 

falleth so ! 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 25 

If He thinks it fit to send us quiet lives and happy 

hearts, 
We may rest without a shadow, safe from all misfor- 

tune'-s darts. 
But if He, with infinite wisdom, closer draw the 

chastening band, 
We must bow in meek submission, lest He lay a heavier 

hand. 

Early memories surging, thronging from a troublous 

depth of soul. 
One by one from memory's chambers silent to the 

surface stole. 
Had she, then, been weakest craven, when she deemed 

herself most brave. 
Leaving thus her cross behind her, battling 'gainst a 

self-made wave ? 
Memory drew, in vivid coloring, how, on eve of early 

spring, 
She had mated, with the birdlings — on her hand a 

golden ring ; 
At her feet an ardent suitor ; in her ear a siren song ; 
In her heart a boundless loving — o'er her past a 

boundless wrong. 
Love had failed her at the outset, turned her sweet- 
nesses to gall ; 
Robbed her of her sweet, confiding love — of faith, of 

hope, of all. 



26 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

No, not all ; for there beside her, flushed with roseate 

hue of health, 
Lay a joyous cherub cradled — sum of all her worldly 

wealth. 
What if he, his father's image, lived to chide her for 

the wrong 
She had done him in deserting ! Did he not to both 

belong ? 
Might he not, some future morning, wake to crave a 

father's kiss? 
Taunt her with the crime of having robbed him of a 

fancied bliss? 
Yet, why fancied ! He had loved him, in his easy, 

careless way. 
Why might not that love have deepened, growing on 

from day to day ? 
Even now he might be grieving — not for her, she 

knew it well ; 
But for all his darkened hearthstone, and his child — 

how could she tell ! 
She had sworn to love and cherish till e'en death itself 

should part : 
Was her promise only binding while she bore a light- 
some heart ? 
Out upon her for a craven ! Not thus lightly vows are 

made — 
Once united, one forever, be it sunshine or in shade. 
She had sinned ! Not hers the only darkened heart 

this world had known. 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 27 

Life was full of sad-eyed reapers, gathering where 

they had not sown. 
Gathering wheat and tares together — seeing only 

darkly now, 
But with hope of clearer vision if they turn not from 

the plough. 



List ! A wail of mortal anguish ! How her unloved 

childhood's years, 
All her silent wifely anguish, all her passionate heart- 
wrung tears, 
Die into the past behind her, blotted out by one great 

blow: 
Bows she in the gathering darkness o'er a form as cold 

as snow. 
Lying like a lily cradled, every roseate tinting gone. 
Pure and pale as early snowdrop — child of hasty 

wedlock born. 
Gone the faintest trace of breathing. Now she gives a 

fitful start. 
As she lays her hand, despairing, o'er the almost quiet 

heart. 
^Tis but life's last feeble fluttering. Colder still the 

fingers grow. 
While the mother sinks in anguish, all too deep for 

tears to know. 



28 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Draw the veil o'er days of darkness ! nights of loneli- 
ness, that stare 
Wide-eyed at the sleepless sufferer, peopling all the 

oppressive air 
Thick with hideous, thronging fancies : ghostly memo- 

ries stalk abroad. 
Outcast by her own wrong-doing, dai'e she call upon 

her Lord ? 
If in path of daily duty, set her by the Master hand, 
This her sorrow had befallen, then, indeed, she might 

demand 
Comfort from a source unfailing : now she cannot, dare 

not pray. 
Is it not a wrathful smiting that has taken her child 

away? 
God is just as well as loving. Was it meet that she 

should keep 
Stolen sweets ? The fruits of evil soon or later man 

shall reap. 
Vain, all vain, her long foreboding of a child like 

father grown. 
Fool ! to think that any blessing cpuld for long remain 

her own. 
She had gloried in her daring, proud of heart and 

brai^ as well ; 
Every friendly offer made her she had hasted to repel. 
Now, alone, forsaken, outcast, her one bud of promise 

crushed. 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 29 

Broods, there, o'er her stricken being pause like that of 
tempest hushed. 

Then a rain of softer feeling — might she not be one 
of those 

Who can only reach the haven through successive 
heartfelt woes ? 

Whom our Father loves He cliastens. Ah ! she sees 
it dimly now, 

And a gleam of heavenly radiance hovers o'er her 
darkened brow. 

She has made herself her idol, grasped at happiness below. 

All unmindful that its flowerets must on duty's path- 
way grow. 

Blind,- exacting, proud, impulsive, she has thrown life's 
chance away ; 

Happier hearts are beating round her — hearts of com- 
moner, humbler clay. 

Hearts that, robbed of earlier dreamings, comfort seek 
on bended knees, 

And, in life's sweet ministrations, find reward in hearts 
at ease. 

She will seek, like them, a future quite distinct from 
out the past. 

And, in paths by Him appointed, homage pay to wis- 
dom vast. 

Day is breaking ! Through the grayness comes a hint 
of rosier gleam. 

3» 



30 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Day is breaking, earth is waking — million hearts 
with gladness teem. 

Down the maple-shaded roadway, where the tears of 
night still lie 

On the grassy border, waiting for the smile of day to 
dry, 

Comes, in sad and startling contrast to the bright'ning 
hues of day, 

Solitary mourning carriage, making slow its toilsome 
way. 

Passes by the wicket gateway for the wider carriage 
road : 

Here and there a passing teamster wonders what may 
be its load. 

Only one sad, pale-eyed woman, bearing on her trem- 
bling knees 

What remains of life's elixir : henceforth she must 
drink the lees. 

Through the avenue of beeches — round the now neg- 
lected lawn — 

Halts beside a drooping willow, jand a little coffin, 
borne 

Gently on an alien shoulder, lowers to its earthly rest — 

Not a single sob escaping from the pallid mourner's 
breast. , 

Wedded maid, yet widowed matron ! There are those 
in this strange world. 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 31 

vVho, from some mad freak of fortune, seem predestined 

to be hurled 
From the rock they've sought as shelter, out again 

upon the storm. 
Not for them the quiet haven ! Oft a seeming frailer 

form 
Than our Mabel's buifets bravely where a stouter 

would succumb ; 
With a face all set with sorrow, and white lips all 

stricken dumb, 
Battling for a mere existence — reft of all that makes 

life worth ; 
Yet with sad persistence clinging to the bare brown 

shell of earth. 
Till we wonder who are happier — that death draws 

not sooner nigh ; 
Wonder that they do not curse them — curse their 

Maker — turn and die ! 
Broken hearts ! Why waste our pity on the hearts 

that truly break ? 
Mourn for those who wake while sleeping, and who 

sleep when most awake ! 
Broken hearts ! aye, sound a paeon ! as we lay them 

dust to dust, 
Happier than their throbbing sisters finding taint, or 

gathering rust. 
Waking from the sleep of ages, with the current 

hardly stayed — 



32 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

Leaping into life eternal ! no slow raptures long 

delayed ; 
As may be with tardier natures, breaking slow through 

earth's cold crust ; 
Leaping into joy from madness, as intenser natures must. 



How with Mabel ? Hers a spirit neither born to 

bend nor break. 
Souls there are whose lives are two-fold, and who from 

their mantle shake 
All undue, untoward traces of the purifying storm : 
Follows after summer showers, sunshine but a shade 

less warm. 
What of those who die before us! There are some 

who would deny 
Recognition of earth's loved ones in a home beyond 

the sky. 
Perish teaching so ignoble ! J^ost ones meet us at the 

door — 
Nay ! " not lost," but missing rather — only gone a 

while before. 
This the key to Mabel's future ! sweet eternal rest to 

win ; 
But a few more years of labor — Christian warfare 

conquering sin. 

Night is falling, soft and solemn, lighted by a single 
star, 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 33 

When, through all the tender quiet, comes a ringing 

sound afar. 
Nothing but a doorway closing, from the cottage on 

the hill. 
And a quiet figure sitting silent on the shaded sill. 
All alone, yet not despairing — life of daily duty 

wrought, 
Even to this erring being hath a sweet contentment 

brought. 
Coming back to home deserted — knowing naught of 

him, its head — 
She has labored daily, hourly, to provide her scanty 

bread. 
Sought by all whom grief hath stricken, loved alike 

by old and young. 
Moves she like a ministering angel, all the sad and 

poor among. 
In her heart a chastened sorrow : on her face a smile so 

rare. 
One would know, by intuition, she had met and con- 
quered care. 
Not in days or weeks of penance hath the touching 

change been wrought ; 
But by conscientious labor — who will say too dearly 

bought ! 
Sometimes, in the falling twilight, resting from a day 

of care. 
Comes a tender, chastened mem'ry of a face once 

passing fair. 



34 A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 

What if fate should lead him hither, tired of roaming 

round the world, 
Just again to view the homestead whence life's keenest 

dart was hurled ? 
She would meet him without question — tend him, if 

it so might be ; 
Lead him to the little hillock 'neath the once loved 

willow tree. 
O'er that grave of earthly promise fickle heart might 

flame anew, 
And, in blessed tears repenting, rise to earnest life and 

true — 
Not, she knew, the sweet communion of two spirits 

blent in one : 
Life's best chances thrown behind them, ne'er the 

wrong can be undone. 
But, though barrier lay between them lapse of time 

could ne'er efface. 
She might yet become his blessing, aided and sustained 

by grace. 
Giving all and asking nothing, only seeking light 

Divine, 
That, perchance, a face she wot of might at last with 

radiance shine. 



Whether in the distant future buds of promise shall 
be blown. 



A WAYSIDE FLOWER. 35 

Wreathing iu their tender beauty all the scarred and 
riven stone — 

Filling, with a soft completeness hope alone can e'er 
bestow, 

All the quiet years for Mabel — boots not now for us 
to know. 

Leave we her to silent musings, neither butterfly nor 
drone, 

Clasping close a wayside floweret, on life's busy high- 
way grown. 




mm^mmk 



THE THISTLE SEED. 




PENITENT knelt at the grated door, 

And the words came soft and low, 
As she gathered up with a dainty hand 
Her lavender dress below. 
" Ah ! Father," she cried, " my heart is sore ; 

My sins, they are many and great : 
I have heeded no word of the golden rule. 

And have paid fair love with hate. 
I have married a man for his princely wealth, 

And have given him naught but scorn ; 
I have wasted in riot my precious health. 

And my parents are left forlorn. 
I have turned aside from the beggar's plea, 

Yet revelled in gold myself; 
And my early friends have been naught to me, 

For they had nor fame nor wealth." 
She paused. " Is this all ? " the Father said. 

She answered, in flute-like tones : — 
" O, what can be worse than to eat the flesh 

And throw to the poor the bones ? " 



THE THISTLE SEED. 37 

" Alas ! my daughter/' the Priest replied, 

" You have told jne of sorry deeds ; 
Of flowerets plucked with a ruthless hand — 

But what of the deadly weeds ? 
What of the sins'of that silvery tongue ? 

Hath it uttered no word but truth ? 
Hath it circulated no slander foul, 

Rolled 'neath remorseless tooth ? " 
A blush on the fair cheek slowly grew, 

A blush that was born of dread. 
*' I have done as most of my neighbors do — 

I have sinned ! " the sweet voice said. 
No question more from the Priest within ; 

But his hand through the grating stole, 
Holding a ripened thistle top, 

In its calyx, green and whole. 

" Be this your penance, my child," said he. 

" Take each small seed alone. 
And scatter them separate, far and near. 

Till your feet are weary grown. 
Then, if your task is fully done. 
Hasten here by to-morrow's sun." 

Wondering much at the strange command, 
The lady went forth with seed in hand. 
And carefully followed her weary work, 
Never dreaming the task to shirk ; 



5 THE TPIISTLE SEED. 

And many a weary sigh she sighed 
Ere each small seed had been scattered wide. 
Then, taking the road she had trod before, 
She knelt again at the grated door. 

" O, Father," she cried, " my task is done ; 

I have taken each seed alone. 
One I have dropped at each mansion fair. 

And one at each wayside stone. 
I have scattered them far, and near, and wide, 
And my feet, they are weary and sore beside." 
She waited, with fair head bending low — 

No word of praise or of blame. 
" Go, gather each seed from its wayside home, 

And place it from whence it came." 
She stood aghast at the strange behest. 

" How can I ? " she said at last ; 
" For some are sunk in the pliant earth. 

And some on the winds are cast. 
It was easy to drop them, one by one. 

In meadow, and lane, and street ; 
But to gather them all from their beds again 

Would be more than a human feat." 

" Alas ! my child, it is even so 
With far graver things than this : 

The slanders dropped by a truant tongue 
Are worse than the serpent's hiss. 



THE THISTLE SEED. 39 

The seeds that we scatter with careless hand 

Will blossom and bloom anon ; 
And wide-spread branches and giant roots 

From the tiniest seed are sprung. 
The random word of a careless hour 

Hath sped on its winged way, 
And never more may be gathered up 

Till the last great reckoning day. 
'Tis easy to utter a sharp reproach, 

Or a passing slur to fling ; 
But, the seed once sown, 'twere a fairy task 

To gather them ere they spring. 
For some have fallen by mansion fair, 

And some by the wayside stone. 
And hither and thither, and far and near, 

Bv the errant wind are blown." 










ii^i^i 


fei^^ 








■^mm^mJ^ 




^mmmm. 



THE OLD MANOR HOUSE. 




T was years since I had seen it. 
Ah ! how old, how old I felt, 
Since in sportive mood so gaily 
On the latticed porch I knelt. 
There the self same vines were clinging, 

And the roses, fair and pale, 
Mocked me with their olden beauty ; 
For my own began to fail. 

How I called to mind the careless, 

Happy days when first we met, 
Ere we each began to question 

How the tide of life would set. 
I knew he was but human — 

I well knew he was not good ; 
For to me he had confessed it. 

As an honest lover should. 



And I said, in tones that trembled, 
" It is not too late to mend r 



THE OLD MANOR HOUSE. 41 

Throw the soriy past behind you — 
You will fiud me still your friend." 

What a gleam of sunny brightness 
Swept across his troubled face, 

Leaving of his sad misgivings 
But a purifying trace. 

" If I only dared to hope it ! " 

Came in whispers soft and low. 
Shall I tell my trembling answer ? 

Ah, well ! It was not No. 
And a silence fell between us 

Like the hush of eventide — 
"Wrapped around in happy musings, 

As we sat there side, by side. 

Ah ! how sweet the first conviction 

Of a mutual passionate love ! 
Earth holds not so great a blessing — 

Scarce, I think, can Heaven above. 
We questioned not the future — 

We had buried all the past; 
And we loitered on in loving, 

Which was all too sweet to last. 

And the parting came in anguish — 

As it will where love is sweet — 
And he left me, little dreaming 

We were never more to meet. • 



42 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE. 

And the moonbeams flickered sadly, 
And my heart was full of dread ; 

For the future was uncertain, 
And we were not sworn to wed. 



Ah ! I curse the luck that bade me 

Drive his image from ray heart, 
And I curse the words of madness 

Telling him that we must part. 
What if he were no angel ! 

Had I not known that before ? 
And I loved him — oh, I loved him 

As I shall love nevermore ! 

They said he was beneath me ; 

That he did not love me true. 
But held me as a stepping-stone 

Dame Fortune to subdue. 
And in my pride and folly. 

And my agony of heart, 
I decreed, in mortal anguish. 

That our paths must lie apart. 

I was false to woman's nature — 
To my own untutored self: 

I know he was no angel. 

But he'd scorn to woo for pelf; 



THE OLD MA^S'OR HOUSE. 43 

For Ill's face was white with anguish, 

And his eyes a paler blue, 
And the manly nostrils quivered 

As he looked his last adieu. 

Who knows ! I might have made him 

All I ever dared to hope. 
Ah, well ! 'tis long since over. 

And we all in blindness grope. 
Utmost folly show our wisest : 

There is madness in our sane — 
And the worst of all earth's follies 

Is to hope to love again. 




THE WIZARD LOOM. 



— .^AVA^'W.v— 




HE wove a web of the daintiest dye, 
So fine that scarce could the naked eye 

The gossamer thread perceive. 
Sitting, she worked with a feverish haste, 
Snatching a morsel in hand to taste. 
Living — only to weave. 

A wedding garment it was she wove, 
And the fabric under her fingers throve 

And grew with a lightning speed. 
Strange and rare was the quaint device, 
And the worker was paying a fabulous price ; 

But that was of little heed. 

No orange blossoms were trailing there ; 
No saintly lilies, all pure and fair — 

Not even a budding rose : 
Nothing a bride has been wont to wear. 
But a harvest of all that is deadly, there, 

On the delicate fabric grows. 
A passion flower, with its crown of thorn ; 



THE WIZARD LOOM. 45 

A fair, proud face, with a look forlorn, 

And a nightshade over all. 
A 'wildering growth of poisonous flowers ; 
A babe that has numbered a few short hours, 

Stretched on its tiny pall. 

A stream dried up with the summer's heat ; 
A minute-glass, with its steady beat ; 

• A serpent in act to spring ; 
A pond where the water stagnant lies. 
And loathsome things to the surface rise ; 
A yoke 'neath a wedding ring. 

In and oiii, with a subtle thread. 
Heeding no passing voice or tread, 

She murmurs below her breath ; 
And the song she sings to a weird tune — 
Pausing only her thread to prune — 

Is a song of blight and death : • 

" I will dip it deep in a deadly dye — 
It shall wrap her round and round : 
The dawning smile shall become a sigh, 
And her laugh but a fitful sound. 

" No bridal blessings for her who wove 
A garland of death for me ! - 
But a hidden thorn in her treasure trove, 
And the bloom of the Upas tree. 



46 THE WIZARD LOOM. 

" Her life, exhaling a poisonous sweet, 
Shall wither instead of feed ; 
And flowers pressed by her dainty feet 
Shall turn to a marsh-grown mead. 

" Her mother's fount, with its hidden sweet. 
Shall prove but a barren well ; 
And the babe she turns her in love to greet 
Shall lie in a grass-grown dell. 

" A serpent's voice in her ear shall sing ; 
And Time, with relentless tread. 
Shall find but a yoke in the marriage ringj 
And love of its own sweets dead." 

She paused ; for the last fine thread was spun: 
The deadly beautiful work was done ; 

And a miracle came to pass. 
For the air with a terrible hissing rung : 
Poisonous wreathings were round her flung ; 

And the floor was a seething mass 

Of burning sand and of marshy slime. 

A rattlesnake marked her the crawling time ; 

And out of her reach there rose 
A fountain clear, which she longed to quaif ; 
But close to her ear a maniac laugh 

The blood in her bosom froze. 



THE WIZARD LOOM. 47 

She strove to rise from the death-wrought loom — 
To flee for her life from the fearful room, 

Where each serpent had found a tongue. 
But the marsh reeds all around her rise: 
A mist is floating before her eyes ; 

And the Upas o'er her hung. 

Slain by the curse of her own mad brain ; 
Blinded and faint with a gnawing pain — 

She had fallen to rise no more. 
The light came slow thro' a darkened room ; 
And, save for no trace of the wizard loom, 

Life its old aspect wore. 

Only a maiden, who shivered and shook, 
And whose vivid color her cheek forsook, 
As she thought of her horrid dream. 
" Thank Heaven ! " she cried, in her fear, aloud : 
And on bended knee, and with head low bowed, 
She dropped the delicate seam. 

"No hypocritical gift of mine 
Shall poison the chalice of wedded wine, 
And peril my soul ! " she cried. 
" And for him — if he could, with a quiet heart, 
Fashion the arrow that winged that dart. 
Let him go ! — with his beautiful bride." 



A/K LADY FAIR. 




.aVv«m">Va~ 



SPRIGHTLY thing, my Lady Fair, 
A creature less of earth than air — 
A creature ever on the wing, 
From flower to flower she'll flit and sing ; 
But, like the bee, she, too, can sting — 
My Lady Fair. 



A joyous thing, my Lady Fair, 
Knowing naught of pain or care : 
Dazzling all within her sphere — 
Dazzling as the moonbeams clear. 
And as cold sometimes, I fear — 

My Lady Fair. 



A fearless thing, my Lady Fair : 
What is there that she would not dare ? 
Making all the pulses start, 
Transfixing every human heart, 
By her dazzling, deadly art — 

My Lady Fair. 



MY LADY PAIR. 49 

A gorgeous thing, my Lady Fair, 
With her glossy purple hair, 
And her shining emerald eyes, 
And her royal Tyrian dyes ; 
But, ah me ! I fear she lies — 

My Lady Fair. 

A lissome thing, my Lady Fair, 
Noiseless gliding here and there : 
Brilliant-hued as any snake, 
And as treacherous, too, I take ; 
But I'd die for her sweet sake — 

My Lady Fair. 





A STORM AMONG THE SAND HILLS OF 
COLORADO. 



OME boys ! the summer night is past — 
And o'er the neighboring hill, 
Through golden vapors lessening fast, 
The sun shines warm and still. 



" Rise, lazy loiterers, from your bed ! 

The morning meal is done — 
The Vesper hour hath come and gone, 

While you your labors shun. 

" The sheep are bleating in the fold ; 

The dogs are whining low — 
Shake oif the sleep that doth enfold. 

For ye have far to go. 

" No loitering by the wayside, boys, 
Nor heed sweet sight nor sound ; 

But make each sturdy footstep tell — 
'Tie twenty miles around." 



A STORM AMONG THE SAND HILLS. 51 

Starting, the hardy lads awake, 

And rub their bold, black eyes, 
In wide amaze to find the sun 

Has been the first to rise. 

And soon the mug of fi^aming milk 

With eager haste is quaffed. 
And pockets stuffed with lunch to come — 
. While blithe the youngsters laugh. 

The sheep are bleating for their glen. 

The dogs are whining low — 
And quick they urge their onward steps, 

For they have far to go. 

They know the way— for oft before 

Their feet the road have trod ; 
As erst they kicked the blinding dust. 

Or pressed the emerald sod. 

The glistening dew drops gem each spray, 

Nestling the flowers among — 
And o'er the fragile sweet wild rose. 

In diadems are strung. 

All nature seems to harmonize 

With boyhood's careless glee — 
And soul-inspiring roundelays 

Burst forth from every tree. 



A STORM AMONG THE SAND HILLS. 

Seven hundred sheep they drive before, 
With laughter, shout and song ; 

Or tell a tale of wonder wild. 
As they wind their way along. 

But morn now turns to brilliant day ; 

The boys are spent with heat ; 
Their tongues wag not so noisily, 

And lag their weary feet. 

Till looking up with sudden thought, 

The elder cried aloud — 
" There are the sand hills, Juan — look ! 

O, would you not be proud, 

" If we might drive the sheep across 

Instead of going round ? 
'Tis not four miles through here they say, 

We could — that I'll be bound. 

" What is the use of doing as 

Our fathers did before ? 
It seems to me that fifty years 

Should sure have taught them more." 

Thus Jesu to the younger spake ; 

And he with eager eyes, 
Is quite content to follow on — 

And not a word denies. 



A STORM AMONG THE SAND HILLS. 

They climb the hills of shifting saud ; 

It reaches ankle deep ; 
But what is that to eager boys ! 

Their onward way they keep. 

Now shout they loud with song and glee, 

Full half the way is done ; 
When sudden comes a lightsome breeze, 

And murky grows the sun. 

The fine white sand is blowing wild, 

And fills the darkening air; 
The boys press on with sinking hearts, 

And breathe a passing prayer. 

'No more they watch their bleating flocks, 
The sheep are running wild — 

The dogs are whining — crouching low. 
Beside each frightened child. 

Louder and louder blows the blast. 

And faster whirls the sand. 
And shifts from 'neath their 'wildered feet, 

A mass of sliding land. 

The sand has turned to blinding clouds ; 

Each hill becomes a hole : 
A seething, boiling, bubbling pit, 

Where once was quiet knoll. 



54 A STORM AMONG THE SAND HILLS. 

Bravely they breast the cruel storm, 
But Juan's strength gives way. 

Tost in a pool of seething sand, 
The youngest darling lay. 

The other, with his mantle drawn 

Above his pallid face, 
Still climbs as climbs the shifting sand, 

And wins the fearful race. 

The wind has wreaked its fury now, 
And sings in plaintive moan, 

A requiem o'er the buried dead. 
Beneath the sand hills strbwn. 

No sheep bleat round their leader now. 
No faithful whine is heard — 

And with sad terror of the dead. 
The living heart is stirred. 

He stands alone — of all the life 
That lately trod the plain : 

And with a wild and wondering gaze. 
He looks and looks again. 

The treacherous sand in quiet heaps 
Of glistening silver shines — 

Touched by the sunset rays that fall 
Repentant through the pines. 



A STORM AMONG THE SAND HILLS. 55 

So stand we at the close of years^ 

Upon life's battle plain ; 
Struck with sad wonder that we see 

No trace of wreck remain. 

The younger ranks are filling fast 

The havoc made in ours, 
And where we once have mourned our dead, 

The living gather flowers. 

Fair nature strives each ghastly wound 

To close with smiling haste. 
And touches with repentant hand, 

The Colorado Waste. 




TIRED OUT. 



3 



IRED eyelids dropping down 
Over eyes of softest brown : 
Tired fingers, pale and thin, 
And the white, transparent skin. 



Tired little aching feet, 
Once the fleetest of the fleet : 
Tired voice, so weak and low. 
Once so joyous in its flow — 

Murmuring : " I am tired out ; 
And I cannot run about. 
Playing, as I used to do ; 
Gathering all the flowers that grew ; 

" Chasing butterflies and bees ; 
Heaping nuts and climbing trees ; 
Digging worms to bait my hook ; 
Slyly stealing to the brook. 



TIRED OUT. 57 

" Setting mother's rules at naught ; 
Blushing rosy red if caught ; 
Head down dropped, through very shame, 
Yet to-morrow just the same." 

Tired out ! Poor little one. 
With whom life has scarce begrun : 
Slower move the pulses now, 
More transparent grows the brow. 

Tired out ! Life's work is done. 
See the tender setting sun 
Lighting up the hair so brown ! 
Fades the cross and glows the crown. 




OUT OF THE WAY. 



— -jf^^^^FYf^i"— 




ASSING along one summer's day, 
I heard a mother — sad, sighing— say, 
"I would they Nvere all well out of the 
way " — 
And paused to hear. 
Three little children round her clung, 
And the room with their clamorous crying rung, 
As their little arms aloft they flung — 
In baby fear. 



Some molehill that like a mountain seemed — 
And little brains with quick fancies teemed. 
Of things they had heard, or seen, or dreamed. 

And straight to her — 
Who never had failed them in their need. 
But ever had sought with a loving heed 
Their growing bodies and brains to feed — 

They fled in fear. 



OUT OP THE WAY. 59 

I gazed on the mother's patient face, 
Pale and worn, and with many a trace 
Which nothing on earth could ever efface — 

And turned away. 
But as she stooped o'er each small sprite, 
Soothing their murmurs of pain and fright, 
I heard her say in a whisper quite — 
"No, let them stay!" ' 

Mothers ! longing in vain for rest — 

With little heads pillowed on aching breast. 

Wishing the birdlings out of the nest— 

O, impious prayer ! 
Think how you'd mourn for the baby ways. 
The childish prattle and merry plays. 
That brightened your labor those weary days 

Of toil and care ! 

For birds are no sooner fledged than flown, 
And the mother is left to lament alone 
O'er the nest that is suddenly lifeless grown ; 

And she longs again 
For the weary years that have slipped away, 
When her darlings were gathered around in play, 
While she wished them grown and out of the way — 

With sharpest pain. 

For never was mother deserved the name, 
Who would not take to herself sad blame, 



60 OUT OF THE WAY. 

And repent in loving sorrow and shame 

The one dark day, 
When wearied out with unwonted care, 
She thoughtlessly breathed a passing prayer, 
That the little cherubs who gathered there 

Were out of the way. 




FAILURE AND COMPENSATION, 




|;HROUGH the day, work — and blessed rest 
at night; 
But to us all a quiet moment comes, 
"When slipping off the armor donned for fight, 
We stir the embers to a flickering light, 
And sadly reckon up life's tangled sums. 

And trooping pale-eyed from each dark recess. 

Lit by a transient warmth from Memory's glow, 
The ghostly children of a far-off past. 
Each paler and more shadowy than the last, — 
Faint phantoms of the firelight, come and go. 

Hopes that we nourished in our first glad youth — 
Illusions stripped by time of all their worth ; 

Loves that were lies, and hatred that was truth ; 

Fair dreams that brought us only saddest ruth — 
These are the harvests of a child of earth ! 

And yet, with folded hands at weird dusk, 
Heart-sick and weary at our daily toil — 



62 FAILTJEE AND COMPENSATION. 

What wonder if we crave the past again, 
Calling it from the dust where it has lain ; 
Brushing with tender hand the gathered soil ! 

Cheating ourselves into the fond belief 
That all was fair in the dead days of yore ! 

Mayhap it was, compared with present grief; 

A weary round — long days — nights all too brief 
For hearts that each new wakening must deplore. 

Sadly we sit within the darkening room : 

Slowly the phantoms rise and float away. 

The sisters sitting at their world-wide loom, 

Weave on unseen our daily, hourly doom — 

Night slowly brightens into glorious day. 

And into each small nook that dusky eve 

Had peopled with its questionable past ; 
The glorious sunlight pours its living flood, 
Turning to molten gold the shadowy brood : 
Kindling a furnace, where we haste to cast 

Our weak repinings and our backward gaze : 

Recalling the untimely fate of her 
Who, pausing to regret the sunny past. 
And turning — into lifeless mould was cast : 

Forever lost to past or present cheer. 



FAILURE AND COMPENSATION. 63 

What though the way be dark that we must tread ! 

Was there not One who ran the race before ? 
And has He not to all the faithful dead 
A promise given to crown each humble head 

With light and glory all unknown before ? 

What matter then a gloom encircled past ! 

Save but to brighten all our coming joy. 
All toil and woe and sorrow ever past, 
All thought of failure to the wide winds cast — 

" Enter ye faithful in your Lord's employ." 




MOHAMMED ALI AND THE APPLE. 



— ..MM-'VAV'*— 




OHAMMED ALI sat iu state- 
On his brow a look of care, 
His courtiers waited the nod of fate, 
And whispered a fervent prayer. 



For well they know who wait on kings, 
How slight their hold on life — 

Uncertain what each moment brings. 
New favors or the knife. 

On marble floor before him lay 

A carpet ten feet square. 
Well might the trembling courtiers pray ! 

For an apple ripe and rare 

Lay in the centre — a tempting sight 

To a stranger passing nigh, 
It filled each soul with an awful fright. 

Each breast with a labored sigh. 



MOHAMMED ALI AND THE APPLE. 65 

Aud now be spoke in measured tones, 

All eyes were on him cast, 
Each courtier dropped on his marrow bones, 

And his breath came thick and fast. 

" To-morrow, by the morning's dawn, 
We march to meet the foe. 
And who commands our mighty host, 
'Tis time we all should know. 

" Behold yon apple in its bloom ! 
What hand can raise it there, 
And place within my royal hand. 
Shall royal honors share. 

" But mark my words ! no foot may rest, 
Save on the marble floor — 
Too precious is the Persian rug, 
Now use your magic lore." 

AVith blank dismay the courtiers gazed — 

Then bent them to the ground. 
And each in turn, with bendins: form. 

Clutched at the apple round. 

But one remained, of dwarfish size, 

Mohammed's brother he. 
And as he bent him to the prize, 

All faces laughed to see. 



66 



MOHAMMED ALI AND THE APPLE 



When calmly stooping to the rug, 
He rolled it up and smiled ; 

While every face, save All's own, 
Wore look of wonder wild. 

■ Behold your chief! " Mohammed cried, 
" All worthy to control. 
For wit is more than brutal strength. 
And bulk gives place to soul.'' 




I\M I GLAD? 



— '-ff^'y^^r—- 




M I glad that I married you still, dear love, 

After years of toil and care — 
Years that have faded the rose of youth. 
And ^yhitened my once brown hair? 

Am I glad that I married my own true love— 

With the fearless hazel eyes. 
And the hand with the honest, manly grasp, 

And the mouth that never lies ? 



Do I fret and pine because we are poor. 
And sigh for my maiden name. 

Because w^e have toiled and striven so long 
For the comfort that never came ? 

Ah ! little you know my heart, dear love, 

After years of married life. 
If you think I could ever have borne to be 

Another man's petted wife. 



68 AM I GLAD. 

My one time lover, over the way, 
May be richer in stocks and gold. 

But I should have carried a sorrowing heart, 
Though living in wealth untold. 

For I should have mourned the gladsome light 

Of the face I have loved so well. 
And instead of a welcome, a mocking, note 

Would have rung in the marriage bell. 

I honor you more for the patient pain 
That has lain in your eyes so brown ; 

And I love you far more than I ever could love 
The wealthiest man in town. 

Think what we've been to each other, love, 
Through all our trouble and pain ! 

Ah ! yes, despite of all we have borne, 
I'd marry you over again. 

For love is a passion that never dies, 

A flame that must ever burn. 
And when care o'ertaketh hearts that are true, 

They only the closer turn. 

Yes, I'd marry you over again, dear love. 

If life were ten times as long. 
Then never wound your own heart again, 

Or mine, with a doubt so wrong. 



WELCOME TO WINTER. 




LOW, l)low ! ye stormy Winter winds, 
Let loose each bitter blast ! 
What power to sadden once ye had. 
That power is long since past. 



In early youth we welcome Spring ; 

Its flower, sweet laden air. 
Its emerald turf, quick shooting plants. 

And glorious promise fair. 

Then but to live is to be blest ! 

Our future shines so fair, 
And earth and heaven seem all in league 

To banish every care. 

But riper years bring calmer hearts. 

We do not linger now 
On moonlight nights as once of old, 

With softly brooding brow. 



70 WELrCOME TO WINTER. 

Our die is cast ! Our tale is told ! 

And falling back amain, 
We leave to those of tenderer years, 

What scarce can charm again. 

The bare, brown tree, the shrivelled leaf, 
The hard, frost-bitten ground. 

Accord far better with our mood, 
And make our pulses bound, 

All eager for the week day strife ; 

The homely loving task, 
Which brings a blessing of its own : 

This now is all we ask. 

And when the daily round is o'er, 
And twilight reigns supreme, 

And wearied nature claims repose. 
We too may have our dream. 

Not of a future all too fair 

To blossom on this earth, 
But looking far beyond this realm. 

And past the glowing hearth — 

We see a shining home afar. 
Where Spring reigns evermore. 

And balmiest breezes blow about 
Our Father s open dooi*. 




SONG. 



NAY, CROWN ME NOT. 

AY, crown rae not with roses ! 

They should deck a younger brow, 
And would only shame the paleness 
That has crept about me now. 



When a heart has lived its life out, 
Plant no flowerets near its grave. 

Life's tide should close above it. 
Leaving it beneath the wave. 

Nay ! mock me not with roses, 
Blushing roses in their bloom, 

Lest their sweets betray my secret. 

And strange eyes should read my doom. 

And if I must, like others, 

Choose a wreath to bind my hair, 

Then give me of the passion vine ! 
Its flowers I well may wear. 



72 SONG. 

Its glorious purple blossom, 

Blent of mingled light and shade, 

Breathes gloom as well as gladness, 
And seems all for mourners made. 

Then crown me not with roses ! 

They should deck a fairer brow. 
And would only shame the grayness 

That has gathered round me now. 




A BARN YARD ROW. 



— «.^W,'VAV~— 




OOKING out of my window one brisk 
Autumn day, 
Where a lot of staid cattle were munching 
their hay — 
All quiet as lambs — 
A testy old ox who was standing near by, 
Looked so temptingly fat that a passing gad fiy 
Lit on one of his hams. 



Up flew the old fellow's hind feet in a rage, 
Regardless of all that's expected of age, 

And sad to relate — 
Instead of requiting the venomous fly, 
Came down on a cow who was lying near by, 

Nearly crushing her pate. 



She rose in a fury, not stopping to ask 
AVho thus had disturbed her delectable task. 
But, lowering her horn, 



<4 A BAEN YARD EOW. 

She rushed at her neighbor, a frisky young mule, 
As full of his play as a boy out of school, 
Who left eating his corn. 

And then such a hubbub as went round the yard, 
/Twere worthy the pen of a loftier bard. 

How I laughed but to look ! 
Each kicking his neighbor without knowing why, 
Till the spirit was caught by the pigs in the sty — 

And the very yard shook. 

Now I leave it to all who observe as they go. 
If one half of the fights in this region below, 

Do not come by mere chance. 
'Tis j ust in this way that most squabbles begin — 
Somebody kicks some one else on the shin, 

Who straight 'gins to prance.- 

And each looker on, never asking the why. 
Gives his neighbor a punch in the rib or the eye. 

Till the yard's in a row. 
The moral is plain — " Never kick till you're spurred." 
One malcontent leavens the whole of the herd. 

Be it human or cow. 




THE MISTLETOE. 

— ..N^KfSirf^*' — 

TREE of sacred mystery ! O, far-famed 

mistletoe! 
What dire misdeed, or ruthless crime hath 
laid thy glories low ! 
Once queen in storied eastern clime, so stately and 

so fair, 
The birds have built them in thy boughs, and sung 
their anthems there. 

Alas! in evil hour there came a blinded, furious 

band. 
And seeing thee in all thy pride, and glorious beauty 

stand — 
" What tree more fit," they mocking cry, " than this 

our mistletoe 
For Israel's King;" and falls the axe with mighty 

ringing blow. 

The Saviour's cross from thy fair trunk was destined 

to be made. 
And from that hour, by slow degrees, thy glories 'gan 

to fade. 



76 THE MISTLETOE. 

Men wondered — as thy goodly boughs grew less and 

less each day, 
And leaves once bright and glossy green, were turned 

to greenish gray. 

E'en as they gazed, each mighty tree seemed slow to 
melt aM^ay, 

And in its place a feathery mass, part greenish and 
part gray. 

Filled all the air, and clustering clung to every for- 
est tree. 

Oh ! never more on this doomed earth the mistletoe 
shall be. 

A parasite for ever more, a wanderer, waif and stray, 
A shadow of thy former self, thy glories passed away, 
Men pass thee with a shuddering sigh : thy tendrils 

light as floss 
Are cursed : for thou suppliedst the wood that carved 

the Saviour's cross. 

And never more thy fated boughs shall grace the chan- 
cel nave; 

Or o'er dim aisle and pillared wall, thy shadowy beau- 
ties wave. 

Once queen of all the forest round, the fairest, stateliest 
tree. 

Accursed for ever and for aye, the mistletoe shall be. 



FOLDED HANDS. 




USY hands at last are folden, 
Hands that rested not in life, 
Knocking at the portals golden, 
Finished now their earthly strife. 
No one praised their rounded beauty. 
None their graceful outline kissed. 
While onearth those hands were busied. 
Yet will they be sorely missed. 

Missed by all who dwelt beside them, 

For the tender, loving touch. 
Which, when words are all unheeded. 

Bring the comfort needed much. 
Tireless in their daily duties. 

Mindful of the coming night, 
When no longer man may labor ; 

Labored these with all their might. 
Angels shall confess their beauties, 

Clothino; them in raiment white. 



Ml HAMMOCK. 



— ,wVVA^'Y/A~— 




LL day long in my hammock I swing, 
And bethink me of every conceivable thing. 
Forgetting the earth with its troubles and 



cares. 



ignoring the world with its pitfalls and snares. 
Looking up to the sky in its heavenly blue, 
'Then down on the turf in its emerald hue. 
'Then far, far away to the bright glancing river, 
Where sparkle the sunbeams, and long shadows quiver, 
Till I well nigh lose sight of the landscape so fair. 
And imagine myself but a sprite of the air. 

JTow I dive to the depths of the green ocean wave, 
.And roam through in fancy some coral girt cave ! 
T sport with the mermaids so slender and fair, 
.And deck with the seaweed their long floating hair. 
Then anon I withdraw from their wildering charms, 
'Unwind from about me the clasp of white arms, 
'While they deluge me o'er with a shower of spray, 
.And their sweet siren tongues would fain urge me to 

stay. 
I turn but to wave them a parting adieu, 
As the last head is sinking 'neath old ocean's blue. 



]\IY HAMMOCK. 79 

Then away, far away to some rock begirt isle, 
WJiere alone, 'mid the grandeur the day god must 

smile : 
Where rocks gray with ages hurl back his fierce raysj 
And alone old King Ocean wears out the long days. 
Now howling in fury, now sinking to rest. 
As calm as a babe on the motionless breast — 
Now dashing in ripples the white beach along, 
Then dying away in a murmuring song. 
I pick the bright pebbles that strew the long beach. 
And away, far away again, far out of reach. 

Away, far away to the limitless blue. 

To the gate of the Paradise made for the few. 

The bright, shining portals in fancy I see, 

And wonder if ever they'll open for me. 

Then down, down again to this hoary old earth, 

Such a jumble of misery, pleasure and mirth. 

Where the smiles hardly balance the tears of the heart, 

And each little man plays his own little part. 

Alas ! the awakening brings mine back to me : 

'Tis only, alas, in my hammock I'm free. 



SHE GAME FROM HEAVEN. 




HILE sitting at my work one day, 
On little socks intent, 
'Twas thus I heard my bonny boys, 
:^s o'er their books they bent. 



Said Fred, the elder, in a tone 
Of infantine reproof, 
" Where are your manners, baddest boy ? " 
And drew himself aloof. 

" Where did you come from, anyhow, 
I'd really like to know ?" 
Quoth Jack in his stentorian tones, 
" From mother's garden row." 



" And where did mother come from ? " cried 
My venturesome first born. 
As glad and free his laugh rang put 
Upon the summer's morn. 



SHE CAME FROM HEAVEN. 81 

With quick, shy glance of fullest love, 

Then dropping his bright head, 
In silvery tones Jack's answer came, 

" She came from Heaven," he said. 

O, blessed love !~ O, childish faith ! 

May it be ever given, 
Through life to deem thy choicest gifts. 

Are from the hand of Heaven ! 




Ml LITTLE QUEEN. 




WAYING to and fro with folded hands, 
In idle mood ray darling stands. 
Fair head hanging low, and dreamy air, 
A witch she is, though passing fair. 
" Mamma, dear," she says, "I'll be a Queen, 
The happiest one Avas ever seen." 
And sinking in her rocking chair, 
She poses with a royal air. 
* * * * * * 

Some ten years pass away ; the little queen 
Would still be one, though other sort I ween. 
From that she coveted in childish days: 
Fair aspirant now for man's love and praise. 
Not now she reaches after golden crown, 
And rules a kingdom by her royal frown ; 
But rosy lips and soft beseeching eyes. 
Show that her game in other pasture lies. 

Come, love ! and crown her with immortal bays, 
And so content her with sweet love and praise, 
Till her small realm a very kingdom seem. 
And life be all one long and happy dream. 





THREE PHASES. 



SAW her first when the lilies of youth 
Bloomed graceful and pure and pale ; 

Her brow unwrit by a single care, 
Too bright for this mortal vale. 

She wearied, she said, of a Sabbath calm, 
And longed for the week day strife. 

I could but smile at the daring wish : 
I, who had lived my life. 

I saw her next when the roses of love 

Had tinged with a blushing pride 
Her lily cheek — but beneath the rose 

The traces of thorns I spied. 
And yet she would taste, she smiling said. 

Of all that the world could bring, 
And for the sake of life's varied lore. 

Could bear with its sharpest sting. 

When I saw her last, both lily and rose 
With the passing of years had fled. 

Her eye was dimmed with the falling of tears. 
And vigor and hope were dead. 



84 THREE PHASES. 

" I long for rest," was her wailing cry, 
" Life is a cruel thorn, 
And yet were my heart but to bleed again. 
Again I would have it born," 

I have thought at times, with an aching heart. 

Of the wish of my early youth, 
AVhen I fain would have bartered peace for strife. 

And the crimson of passion for truth. 
I have gathered the rose of a glowing love, 

Till only the thorn remains, 
Yet rather the rose with its living hues. 

Than the lily without its stains. 

We are born for passion, and fashioned for strife. 

Each" plant in its wondrous birth, 
Through danger and darkness must struggle up 

To the glorified light of earth. 
Oh, who would linger a barren root. 

For fear that its leaves might fade ! 
Far rather to scorch in the glowing sun. 

Than mould in the torpid shade. 






THE MAGNOLIA. 




ET others sing the far-famed rose, 
Or stately lily fair to see ! 
But, oh ! for one long, deep-drawn breath 
In thy damp wilds, Magnolia Tree ! 



The long June days are all too short 
To take thy spicy fragrance in : 

So pure, and meek, and starry-eyed, 
iVe look, and disbelieve in sin. 

Fenced round by no unseemly thorns, 
Thou yet hast bastions of thine own. 

And he who fain would win and wear, 
Must scorn the dainty stepping stone. 



And storm thee in thy dark morass, 
• Half veiled in leaves of glossiest green, 
Thy creamy buds peep out abashed — 
No fairer flower the world hath seen ! 



86 THE MAGNOLIA. 

Just SO, my love ! In piquant grace 
She stands, and all the world may see : 

But half in shade, her soulful face 
Is kept in full, for only me. 

Her heart is hedged in maiden pride, 
And only he who woos her well, 

Shall stand unchidden at her side. 
And all her inmost sweetness tell. 

I waded deep in dankest dell, 

I scorned the mire and spurned the dew : 
And now in sweets no tongue can tell, 

I steep my being through and through. 

O, fair Magnolia ! Fairei' love ! 

Who dost the glare of noonday shun, 
Like all earth's richest gifts to man, 

Thou must be sought ere fairly won. 




SONG. 

I PRAY THEE . DROP. 



— .,.avSV^~»Va-> 




PRAY thee drop that sad, sad strain, 
And glad us with a merrier note. 

You say this world is full of pain, 
That shadows through each sunbeam float. 



What wonder if the world look dark 
To him who shuts God's gladness out ! 

The sun still shines, if only we 

Dare turn our earth-bound eyes about. 

Throw doors and windows open wide : 
Let in the glorious orb of day — 

For darkling motes through sunbeams glide. 
When seen through loopholes on the stray. 

Then drop, I pray, that mournful strain. 
And glad us with a merrier note. 

Throw wide the soul's fair doors again, 
Till new life on each sunbeam float. 




SHE WORE A CLOUD. 




HE wore a cloud, as they call it now, 
O, wonderful fleecy sheen ! 
No whit more pure than her marble brow, 

And her eyes shone out between. 
Like two twin stars from Heaven's own 
sphere, 
Which a cloud rift lets be seen. 



The moon poured down her silver light 

In a flood of radiance rare. 
Glorifying that summer night. 

And making the fair more fair, 
Till I could have worshipped her beauty bright. 

And knelt to her, then and there. 



But my beautiful cloud with the moon went in, 

And my vision faded quite, 
For I saw the cloud again next day, 



SHE WORE A CLOUD. 89 

Without the soft moonlight : 
And the starry eyes, though pretty enough, 
Had lost their angelic light. 

The marble brow, though marble still. 

Was human enough by day ; 
And I thought with amaze of the moonlit night. 

And things I had meant to say : 
And so in the broad, unvarnished light, 

My vision faded away. 

And many a time in after life, 

When a clouded face I've seen, 
I've thought with what mischief the moon is rife, 

And of that glorious sheen. 
Which might have made, or marred my life. 

Had daylight not come between. 




UNREST. 



— -.v/^<'W.v~— 




UT into the silent night, with heavy thoughts 
opprest, 
I gaze upon the quiet skies, and seek to 
know their rest. 
For never more my heart shall find its home upon thy 
breast. 



As some frail vine without support, its tendrils blind 

must fling. 
And seeks in vain a sturdy stem round which to climb 

and cling ; 
And failing, doubles on itself in many a twisting ring — 



So my sad heart of thee bereft — my love's rich stream 

is stayed ; 
And bursting o'er its olden banks, looks wide-eyed and 

afraid. 
To see the ruthless havoc there on ancient landmarks 

made. 



UNEEST. 91 

Bear with me, radiant, tender stars ! nor mock my 

woful plight ! 
Thou'st known me in far different moods, when on a 

happier night, 
Dear eyes, now dead, have looked with me upon thy 

tender light. 

Dead, did I say ? Ah, would they were ! nor only 

dead to me : 
Then might I, in thy pitying light, again their radiance 

see. 
And fancy that my spirit love held nightly tryst with 

me. 

But, no ! There is a death more drear, with which the 

world is rife. 
And some were born to drink the gall, and drain the 

dregs of life. 
O, give me of thy quiet, stars ! and end the unequal 

strife. 





GO THOU THY WAY. 

But go thou thy way till the end be."— Daniel, 12th chap. 13th ver 

O thou thy way until the end shall be ; 

Nor seek profane to pierce life's mystery. 

^Twas God's infinite wisdom placed us here, 
^^^^^ Wait we with patience for the mists to clear. 
He watchful broods o'er all — the bond and free — 
Go thou thy way until the end shall be. 

Go thou thy way, nor question what befall : 
'Tis few may read the hand- write on the wall. 
In trusting meekness, and in loving fear. 
Go live the life our Saviour led while here : 
Praying through joy or woe. His hand to see. 
Go thou thy way until the end shall be. 

Go thou thy way with ever thankful heart. 
Though with thy choicest treasures called to part, 
Remembering when grief thy soul appalls. 
There must be sunlight where a shadow falls. 
" Who loveth — leaveth all for sake of me." 
Go thou thy way until the end shall be. 

Go thou thy way, nor seek nor care to know, 
Why heavenly wisdom orders thus and so. 
No human hand may lift time's shadowy vail, 
And if it could, what heart that would not quail 
At sight of all that is, and is to be ! 
Go thou thy way until the end shall be. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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